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She nods, but I can tell she's not really interested in the details of coffee bean procurement. We reach the kitchen—all marble and stainless steel—where she refreshes her martini and makes one for me without asking.

"Your father ran into Stuart Hunter yesterday at the golf course," she says casually, sliding the glass toward me. "He mentioned you two had quite a night at the poker game last week."

"Stuart exaggerates. I took him for a few hundred dollars, that's all."

She hums noncommittally and busies herself checking something in the oven. I take a sip of the martini—perfect, like everything else in this house.

"Charles." My father's voice carries from the doorway. He's wearing a gray cashmere sweater over a collared shirt. "Good to see you."

We shake hands—we always shake hands—and his grip is firm. At sixty-five, he's still in better shape than most men half his age, a fact he never lets me forget during our occasional rounds of golf.

"Bill," I nod, the childhood habit of calling him "Dad" long replaced by the more professional address he prefers.

"Dinner's ready," my mother announces, saving us from awkward small talk. "I've made your favorite, Charlie—Beef Wellington."

She hasn't though. My mother doesn’t actually cook. They have a chef for that. Always have. But she likes to pretend she cooks. Sometimes, she even wears an apron. It’s an ongoing joke between Jane and me.

We move to the dining room where the table is set with fine china, crystal glasses and sterling silver. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, already breathing, sits center stage.

"I hear the McAllister deal is coming along," my father says as we take our seats. He pours a glass of the wine, examining the color in the light before giving it a slight nod of approval.

"We're close. Their distribution network in the Pacific Northwest complements ours perfectly." I place my napkin in my lap and cut into the beef, perfectly medium-rare. "If it goes through, we'll be in a position to expand into Idaho and Montana by next spring."

My father nods, but I can see he's not as excited as I am. In his world, deals aren't successes until the ink is dry and the profits are flowing.

"That's wonderful, honey," my mother interjects. "So, we received the invitation to Daphne and Rence's wedding. Such a lovely venue they've chosen on Whidbey Island."

And here we go.

"Yes, I got mine yesterday," I say, taking a larger sip of wine than necessary. "Along with three others."

"Four weddings this summer," my mother says with barely contained excitement. "The social event of the season, each one. Who are you planning to bring?"

I push a roasted carrot around my plate. "I'm carefully considering my options."

My father looks up from his meal, his gaze sharp. "Not that marketing girl you were seeing, right? Marissa?"

"No, not Marissa," I say, careful to keep my tone neutral. "We're not seeing each other anymore."

"Good," he says simply. "Never wise to mix business with pleasure."

That's rich coming from a man who married his executive assistant thirty-nine years ago, but I keep that thought to myself.

"What about Vanessa?" my mother suggests. "She was lovely. So poised."

"We broke up a few months ago, Mom."

"Well, yes, but that doesn't mean you couldn't?—"

"I'll find someone appropriate," I cut in, hearing the edge in my voice and quickly softening it. "I'm aware of how important these events are."

My father takes a measured sip of his wine. "Rence's father will be there. And I know Derek Jones is looking to invest in some new ventures and he’ll be there. It would be beneficial to have a date who makes a good impression."

The unspoken message is clear: Don't embarrass us. Don't embarrass yourself. Don't embarrass the Astor name.

"I understand." I force a smile.

“I'm remembering two years ago when you brought that woman who decided a red sequined dress was appropriate for a daytime wedding. Your poor mother almost fainted.”